


Ambient Misery

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2017 [14]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Blood, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Strong Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 18:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Arno wakes up in an ugly place.





	Ambient Misery

Arno wakes up, and the sky above him is gray.  
  
And every nerve in his body is on _fire._  
  
He gasps, shifts, feels the pain overwhelm him, and falls still again. He feels cloth touching his neck and ear, but the ground sinks and shifts below him. Whatever cloth or blanket he’s lying on, it’s lying on the ground, on grass and dirt.  
  
What the _fuck_ happened?  
  
Arno shuts his eyes, tries to trace back to his last memory- when had he last woken up? What was the last date he could recall? What had he been doing that-  
  
Shit.  
  
That did it.  
  
Arno had gone out to warn an Aristocratic family that they’d be getting a very aggressive knock on their door that day… And… Yes, yes, he had warned them (that was a relief; they had three young children and the thought of those children watching their parents go to the guillotine makes Arno nauseous), he’d gotten to them in time, and then he’d hurried away to avoid being spotted by the guard.  
  
The last thing Arno remembers is the sudden shock to his heart as his foot slipped on the edge of a building. It doesn’t take much to deduce what happened from that.  
  
How could he have _slipped_? Arno’s been climbing things for years, from trees to sheds to buildings. He hasn’t fallen this badly since he was a child. Arno tries to move again, but an alarmingly powerful shock of pain in his leg makes him stop.  
  
Actually, it’s possible he’s _never_ fallen this badly before.  
  
There is something deeply terrifying in that: One slip, one split second where he wasn’t diligent enough in watching his footing, and Arno’s body might be lying in a pile whilst strangers dig a mass grave for them.  
  
One slip.  
  
One small, stupid slip, and everything could have been over.  
  
Carefully, Arno turns his head, looking around. The first thing he sees is a gravestone, and that immediately sets him into something of a panic, because did the people who’d brought him here realize that he was still alive?  
  
_Mon dieu, of course they do_.  
  
Arno had no identification on him; they’d have thrown him in a pile with other unnamed corpses and left the state to deal with his remains. They would not have brought him to a graveyard and set him on a blanket beforehand.  
  
And now that he’s looking, Arno can see he’s not the only one injured: Peppered amongst the graveyard are those who are still very much alive, clothes bloodied and bodies badly bruised and broken. He hears their groans, their whimpers, and swallows nervously. Something terrible has happened- probably another riot of some kind, the mob going mad and setting themselves on some person or persons, with multiple casualties to show for it. This is the way of his countrymen, nowadays.  
  
_Notre-Dame. That’s where I am._  
  
Arno is lying with his head pointing to the massive cathedral, and only by leaning his head back as far as possible (a painful effort) can he see the church behind him. That makes sense; Île de la Cité has seen much revolutionary activity as of late, and the revolution is racking up a body-count.  
  
He tries to take stock of his injuries. Moving his legs is painful, but not impossible, and Arno is thankful to realize that they are probably not broken. He tests his arms- the right seems relatively uninjured, but his left, unfortunately, seems to be badly broken; even _trying_ to move it causes him terrible pain. Again, it occurs to him that if the fall had been a bit further, or he’d fallen just a bit differently, he might have been dead.  
  
His arm is tightly bandaged, and Arno realizes, with no small amount of gratitude, that someone must have set the bone when he was unconscious. “ _Dieu merci_ ,” Arno whispers, shivering with relief (which makes him wince). Setting a broken bone is an incredibly painful process, and he’s lucky and immensely grateful to have been spared that particular misery.  
  
Judging from some of the sounds he’s been hearing nearby, not everyone has been so lucky.  
  
Slowly, cautiously, Arno uses his good arm to push himself up into a sitting position, leaning gently against the headstone nearby (he’s generally not a superstitious man, but graves are not something to be played with). Muscle and bone scream at the effort, but there is a deep, _deep_ relief at the fact that his injuries appear to be relatively minor. He’ll need to be careful with his arm, and his body will probably ache for weeks to come, but he will live, and he will do so with all of his limbs.  
  
Which-  
  
“It’s no good.”  
  
Arno cranes his neck to see around the graves. A man who can only be a surgeon is looking grimly down at a half-conscious man lying on a blood-stained sheet. His leg, Arno realizes, is purple and blue and even a little black in some places. Another man sits nearby, also looking grim; Arno assumes he’s a doctor.  
  
“We’ll have to take it.”  
  
At first, he doesn’t understand. The two men stand, and the surgeon whistles. “Hey, boys! Bring this one to the tent! I’ve got to clean my tools.” Two men come and lift the sheet the man is on. He’s barely conscious, but the action clearly disturbs his leg, and he groans from the pain of it. Arno has to push himself up a little, leaning heavily on the grave to follow the men as they bring the man to an area in the corner of the graveyard that’s been sectioned off with sheets.  
  
The sheets, Arno sees, are stained with blood. The surgeon follows the men behind the curtain, and there’s a sound of metal on rock- something is being sharpened. Conversation floats out, most unintelligible, but the word ‘tourniquet’ comes across clearly.  
  
And then he understands.  
  
Arno doesn’t move a muscle, waiting for the inevitable even though it’s quite possibly the absolute _last_ thing in the world he wants to witness, fully or not, and there’s a part of him that wants to curl into a ball and cover his ears so that he doesn’t have to hear what’s about to happen.  
  
Everything is suddenly quiet, and the surgeon’s voice is clear as day:  
  
“Alright, hold him down.”  
  
Not ten seconds later, an agonized, blood-chilling scream tears through the air.  
  
Tears prick Arno’s eyes; panic seizes his chest and nausea, his stomach. There is, of course, a basic sympathy one has for such suffering, but for Arno it runs deeper because it could very easily have been _him_ losing a limb today, and all because he’d made a clumsy mistake.  
  
The worst part is that Arno knows cutting off a limb doesn’t necessarily mean that poor man will live: He may die from the blood-loss, or the infection, or the shock of the pain. He may be suffering for nothing.  
  
_And that could easily have been me._  
  
_I could be on that table._  
  
_I could be losing a leg._  
  
_I could bleed out during the cutting._  
  
_I could be **dead.**_  
  
He has a terrible urge to haul himself up and start running, but he knows his body will fail him if he tries right now, and the sheer _terror_ at the possibility of falling and damaging his already injured arm further paralyzes him with fear. One wrong move before he’s healed properly and it _will_ be him losing a limb.  
  
The screaming lasts for about five minutes. It diminishes into a weak screeching before it disappears entirely- probably the poor soul has passed out from the force of the pain. Arno gags a little when he hears the faint but distinct sound of the surgeon’s saw slicing flesh and bone, and that’s what finally gets him moving.  
  
_I can’t stay here._  
  
He gingerly gets to his feet. It hurts like nothing else, but it’s not enough to stop Arno from moving; he can get back to the Assassins’ headquarters like this, he’ll just have to move carefully and be exceptionally mindful of his arm.  
  
“Monsieur,” A nun approaches Arno. She’s older than him, but not by much; she’s probably responsible for tending to the injured, and Arno does not envy her the task. “Monsieur, please, you are injured.”  
  
Arno smiles painfully. “I’m feeling quite better, Madame. I must be getting home, uh… My wife will be frantic by now.” It’s a spur-of-the-moment lie, but it’s the only thing Arno can think of that will keep the nun from trying to keep him in place.  
  
She does indeed look disapproving of the idea of him going anywhere, but he can’t help but notice that her eyes jump compulsively towards the closed-off area where that poor man is currently having his leg sawed off; she’s as unnerved by it as he is. “You must be careful not to do any more harm to your arm,” She says sternly, and Arno nods easily. “You hurt it quite badly.”  
  
“And I am terribly grateful to you for tending to it, Madame, _merci beaucoup._ I really do need to go- thank you again.”  
  
It takes everything he has to hobble towards the exit of the graveyard without looking too pained, but once he does, Arno turns and flashes the nun another reassuring smile before stepping onto the road.  
  
Every step that takes him away from the graveyard of the dead and barely-living allows Arno to breathe a little easier, despite the considerable discomfort of his sore, protesting body.  
  
_It’s not too far,_ he thinks, _not too far at all._  
  
He has his life, and two legs to make the journey with, and Arno is grateful for that.  
  
-End


End file.
